


The Phantom and the Irishman

by bitchblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Prodigy John, Teacher Sherlock, Violinist John, phantom AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 23:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchblossom/pseuds/bitchblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Phantom of the Opera AU wherein John is a violin prodigy and Sherlock takes him under his wing.  John grows closer and closer to his teacher until he is forced to choose between the girl he loves and the man he worships.  </p>
<p>Eventual Johnlock, love triangle, Mary Morstan established relationship</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Love Never Really Goes Away

John Watson was a prodigy, no doubt about it. He'd started plinking on his parents' piano as soon as he could walk, and after a trip with his grandparents to the orchestra when he was four, he expressed an intense interest in playing the violin. His obliging mother quickly produced one, and he learned quickly. When his mother died, the 8-year-old played a piece he'd composed himself at her funeral. After her death, the lessons stopped, so young John looked to the street performers that passed through the Watsons' quiet Irish neighborhood, who were more than willing to lend a hand to the slight golden-haired child.  
Things went downhill quickly after that. John Watson, Sr. took his wife's death hard, and turned to alcohol to ease the pain. His children bore the brunt of it's effect, as it turned out that Mr. Watson was what they call an 'angry drunk'. They were evicted from the lovely picket-fenced house that John had grown up in and moved to a dingy, run-down neighborhood on the other side of town. John and his older sister Harry tried their best to keep the lights on and the water running, but sometimes even between Harry's job and John's playing they couldn't come up with enough money to pay the bills. Harry dropped out of school to work full-time, and John booked as many performances as he could handle, but the beatings they were getting at home weren't helping their ability to work.  
John often looked back on those nightmarish days and wondered how he'd survived everything that had been thrown at him. Then he remembered Mary. Mary Morstan had been in his year at school, and they'd been friends ever since an incident in the second year when he'd hauled her out of the path of a sixth-year on a motorbike. When his mother died, she was there for him as a comforting shoulder to cry on. When his father took to drinking, she could sympathize. Her cousins were in the same situation, and she knew better than to make fun of him as his clothes got shabbier and his face paler. She split her lunch with him when she could and brought him rosin for his precious violin. She loved to sit and listen to him play, and he wrote more than one piece dedicated to the pretty brunette. They got to highschool and John had to quit school, so they saw less and less of each other, but their friendship somehow lasted even through the hard times. 

As he carefully brushed down his good suit, John hummed the wedding march one more time. He knew it by heart, but this time was special. This time, it was Mary's older sister's wedding, and he wanted it to be better than he'd ever played. He picked up his violin and lovingly drew the bow across the strings, launching into the traditional march but soon adding a twist here and a twist there until the familiar strains were just barely recognizable underneath a harmony all his own. He finished with a sigh and tucked the instrument into its case with a smile. He was ready. One last check in the mirror and he headed out the door with his case under his arm, striding confidently down the dingy street in the direction of the church. His brain swirled wildly as he walked, and his thoughts soon turned to the lovely maid of honor, his best friend Mary. She'd graduated the month before, and now that they were eighteen... He'd taken his time about it, but he'd finally admitted to himself that he was completely and totally in love with her, and today was the day he'd decided to tell her. He wondered what she'd think, but then he thought about all the times she'd brought him lunch or let him crash on the couch when his father'd had a bad night, and he decided that if she didn't love him, he was quite blind.   
Then he was at the church, and he straightened up and cleared his head of everything but the violin in his hands before entering and taking his place at the front, just to the left of where the groom and his men would be. He laid his case on the piano bench and took out the lovely instrument, caressing it as he rosined the bow and tucked it to his chin, waiting for his signal to start. Mrs. Morstan poked her head through the doorway on the other side of the altar and nodded her head, so he laid the bow across the strings and launched into a delicate Mozart sonata, just loud enough to be heard over the murmur of the guests. From that, he transitioned into Beethoven, then to a piece he'd written for his sister one night when she'd had nightmares. As the groom and his men walked out the music changed once again. It was a masculine melody, but gentle and kind. And then the doors swung open at the back of the church, and the bridal march began. The tiny flower girl was first, then the bridesmaids in reverse order. Just before the bride was his lovely Mary in her favorite sky blue shade, prettier than he'd ever seen her, and the violin seemed to leap with his heart at the sight of her. The bow went faster and faster, and his fingers flew to keep up. It wasn't what he'd rehearsed but it was almost as beautiful as she was, and he was satisfied. Everyone else in the room was gaping at the bride, but he had eyes only for Mary. When they'd reached their positions at the altar, the music faded of its own accord, and he took a seat in the chair they'd set for him by the piano. He watched unobtrusively throughout the ceremony, and when the time came for the recessional, he played on again, he knew not what, jealous of the man who walked down that aisle with Mary on his arm. Then there was the reception, and he played for the dancers until he was relieved by several of his friends who had formed a string quartet. He walked nervously over to where she was sitting with a few of her friends, and for a moment he almost let himself walk right past them. But that wouldn't do, so he tapped her on the shoulder and bowed, offering his hand in an invitation to dance. He smiled when she placed her hand in his and let him lead her out to join the rest of the couples. They were both graceful dancers, and soon people were watching this couple who looked as if they'd been dancing together all their lives. But neither of them noticed, as they were deep in conversation soon after the music started.  
“You look lovely today, Mary.”   
“You played beautifully, John.” She blushed at the compliment, but met his eyes nonetheless. He smiled at her, but inside he was scrambling for the words he needed.  
“Mary, there's something I need to tell you.” He was starting to sweat, and he could feel his face slowly turning red. She smiled up at him, and it was all the encouragement he needed. “It's taken me a while to realize it, but Mary, I... I love you.” The brilliant smile on her face told him all he needed to know, and he pulled her imperceptibly tighter as he whispered “Mary, will you marry me?”  
“Yes, John. But you'll have to wait a while, because I'm going away to college in the fall. Can you do that?” He'd wait forever if he could wake up to that smile just once of a morning.  
“Of course I can, darling. Where are you going?”  
“To New York to study art. I'm going to miss you, John.”   
“I'll miss you too, Mary. I'll probably be leaving here as well, come fall. I can't make a living here, and you know how I'd love to have a teacher who can help me improve my playing. It'll probably be London, but if I can't find someone there I may make the hop and join you in America. I'll be working extra this summer to pay my way. Harry's going to stay and keep an eye on Dad, but if the doctors are right she won't have long to wait. Clark's proposed, you know that? They'll be married as soon as we don't have him to worry about. I'm happy for her, but I hate leaving her here with Dad.”  
“There's nothing you can do about that, John. You need to get out of here, and the sooner the better. You'll be a great man someday, John, and I'll be proud to say that I'm your wife. But even if you never play Carnegie Hall, if you never become a famous master, I'll still love you, and I'll still be proud of you.”   
John's heart swelled, and he could say nothing but “I love you, Mary,” as he swept her off into the dance.


	2. Instruments are Weapons, Too

Sherlock Holmes sat in his second-story flat staring intently at the skull on the mantle, running his long fingers absently over the Stradivarius in his lap. His eyes were slightly glazed, and anyone who didn't know him would think he was asleep with his eyes open. In fact, he was the opposite of asleep, for the expansive brain behind those steely grey eyes was working at a pace ordinary people might find dizzying. But those few who knew Sherlock knew that he was far from ordinary. He was, among other things, a detective, a violinist, and a connoisseur of fine music. Now as he tied the strings on yet another case, something drifted through the wall he'd erected around his mind, pulling him out of the palace of information he'd built within. It was the soft strains of a violin, old and battered but skillfully played; some street musician looking for a bit of cash, no doubt.   
He rose from his chair, pulled out his mobile and texted Detective Inspector Lestrade, his contact at the yard, then went curiously to the window to determine what sort of player it was. He—for this was not a woman—was young, probably not yet nineteen, and yet he played with the assurance and ease of a man who'd played for twenty years. This was a person worth meeting, and as he pulled the curtain aside he noted that he'd been right. He could just see the top of a blond head belonging to a young man of about eighteen, and the fine old instrument he played. Sherlock succumbed to his curiosity and headed down the stairs, hoping to catch the fellow before he moved on. He opened the door just in time to see his musician heading on down the street, discouraged by the apparent lack of interest. He shut the door behind him and strode after him, catching up quickly and tapping him on a muscular shoulder.  
John spun around to see a man standing there, an expression of repressed curiosity on his face and his fingers twitching as he glanced at John's precious violin. A fellow musician, then. He smiled politely and met the man's gaze as he listened to the astonishing words pouring from the marble lips.  
“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'd very much like to talk to you about that violin you're holding-” John cut him off there, gripping the instrument tighter as he did.  
“She's not for sale, if that's what you mean.”  
Sherlock chuckled at the sudden defensiveness, and a smile spread across his usually neutral face. “I wouldn't part you from your violin for all the gold in the world. What I would like is to hear you play a bit more, though. Would you mind coming back to my flat? I believe the acoustics indoors will be better suited to my purposes.”  
John couldn't speak for a moment, so he nodded and followed the man without thinking, back down the street and into an average brownstone building that he supposed contained several flats. They climbed a flight of stairs and entered a door marked 'B', to what was likely the messiest flat he'd ever seen. There was scientific equipment scattered throughout the kitchen to his left, and a door stood open to the right leading to a bedroom full of books. The living room was decent, if cluttered, and he stood at the end of the short hallway with his violin in hand, silently watching the man who said his name was Sherlock seat himself in a black leather chair.   
“Is there anything in particular you'd like me to play for you, sir?” He was somewhat in awe of this man, and the feeling only grew when he caught sight of the well-kept Strad sitting on the coffee table.  
“Come on in, I won't bite. First I'd like your name, and then perhaps you'll play me something lovely from your native Ireland.” He waved a slender hand invitingly, and John took a few steps forward. He set the case on a small end table and unbuckled it, taking out his violin before introducing himself.  
“I'm John Watson, of County Cork.” He laid the bow across the strings delicately, as if introducing the two elements before beginning his music. He was unsure at first what to play, so he began a soft Irish folk melody, playing almost automatically the piece he'd known since he was ten. Then he thought of Mary, and without knowing it he launched into a piece he'd written for her before they'd parted a month before. It was soft and sweet and passionate and loving and sad and hopeful all at the same time, and he forgot the stranger as he poured his entire heart into the little bit of Mary he always had at his fingertips. When he finished he held the violin in both his hands, staring at it as if it were the face of his beloved fiancee.   
Sherlock recognized the first piece instantly, and nearly laughed. This was a child's lesson-piece, certainly not worthy of the skill with which it was played. Then the music changed, and he found himself sitting up and listening intently to something he'd never heard before, played with an emotion he doubted he'd ever hear again. It was obviously something this boy John had composed himself, for someone who meant a great deal to him but was now out of his reach, but only temporarily. He sat in silence as the music ended, unable to take his eyes away from the young, honest face that had suddenly captivated him. Finally he shifted in his chair, and the movement brought the boy's attention from the instrument in his hands to the detective who stood and stepped towards the young musician.   
“Who taught you to play, John?”  
“Well, I had a tutor at the beginning, but then my mother died and we couldn't afford it anymore. So mostly I learned on my own, but whenever there was a violinist passing through I'd go and pick up what I could from him.” He looked at his feet, embarrassed at the attention and wondering what this strange man wanted of him.  
“How long have you been playing?” Here was something he hadn't encountered in a long while: something that piqued his interest and presented a unique challenge. He was going to have to keep this fellow around a while.  
“I got my first violin when I turned five. It was a child's instrument, so when I was old enough to properly hold a full-size one I traded it in at a pawnshop for this one. I've had it nearly ten years now.”  
“It's a fine one for a pawnshop find. May I?” He held out his hand, half expecting the boy to clutch the instrument which he treated as his child to his chest and refuse the request. But instead he found himself carefully inspecting a violin that was very likely as old as he was, and that bore the marks of abuse by a former owner. But all of the evidence told him that this John Watson loved the instrument as if it were his own soul and treated it accordingly. When he thought about it, the simile made more and more sense. All of his tender young heart had spilled out through his fingers into this violin, and Sherlock could tell that it had not been the first time. After a long and almost reverent observation, he handed the violin back to it's young owner and for the first time a genuine smile crept onto his face.  
“What would you say if I offered you room and board here with me, along with the lessons you want so badly?”  
John's jaw nearly dropped at the offer, wondering how this man knew what he wanted. It sounded almost too good to be true, though, even if he did want to say yes.  
“How do I know you're able to teach me? And also; if I agree, what will you be wanting in return?” He dared to cock an eyebrow at the imposing man, trying not to let himself shake from fear and excitement as he waited for an answer.  
“All I want is a flatmate. Someone willing and able to run errands and keep me company up here. Entertain me when I get bored. Instruction will serve us both a good turn, so you'll only have to work for your keep, not your lessons. And to answer your first question-” He turned and swept the Strad off the table in one graceful motion, tucking it beneath his chin and grabbing the bow at the same time. He swept instantly into the complex piece he'd been working on that very morning, filling the small flat with lovely notes and intricate chords that swirled around the two men like a living presence. John closed his eyes and drank in the music, recognizing that he'd found precisely what he was looking for and then some.   
As abruptly as he had begun, Sherlock laid aside the instrument, looking at John for an answer. What he saw both amused and touched him: the boy's head was tipped back, eyes closed, and his fingers fluttered delicately across the body of his violin. Suddenly he snapped back into reality, meeting the grey eyes with a pair of steady green ones.   
“I would be honored to be your student, Mr. Holmes, and the terms you've laid out are quite agreeable to me. When would you like to begin?” His face was serious, but inside his heart leapt at the strange and wonderful series of events. What would Mary think? He'd have to write her about this as soon as he could.  
Sherlock was not fooled by the calm expression on the boy's face. The light in his eyes was heartening, and the older man offered his hand as he smiled to himself at the thought of for once not being bored all the time, but having a fascinating person like this one living just up the stairs.  
“Please; call me Sherlock. I can help you get your things first if you want, or we can begin on the lessons. Whichever you'd like; I've nothing else to do.”


End file.
